


The Beginning of the End

by magicalbluecookies (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Potions class fun, Snape pov, alternate POV, not that good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 07:07:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17862674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/magicalbluecookies
Summary: The events of the first Potions class of the year were most disastrous. And, of course, I knew the identity of the one who had caused it all.





	The Beginning of the End

The events of the first Potions class of the year were most disastrous. And, of course, I knew the identity of the one who had caused it all. “Harry Potter,” I said, recognizing his uncanny resemblance to his father, James, that coalescence of puffed-up pride and slimy charisma. “Our new celebrity.” As the boy looked up at the calling of his name, I glimpsed the green of his eyes, the exact same shade as Lily’s.  
   
“Many do not know the strict discipline and delicate art of potion-making, which is why you are here.” I started, beginning the same speech that I always conducted for the insufferable first-years. The first years were so predictably intemperate, never controlling their words or actions and hardly ever showing any sense at all. I glared at them, gaining satisfaction in how petrified they were.

   
“Many pupils disrespect this class and its careful nuaces; they find no beauty in even the best-brewed potions. They scoff at the use of shimmering liquids and their properties. If you are not one of these people, I can guide you towards greatness. I can teach you how to wield the most powerful potions. I can show you how the greatest minds used these potions in their conquests, if, and only if, you learn to respect this subject.” That was as unlikely as Filch becoming the headmaster. The first years were always hopeless at potions, never bothering to care for the subject or even respect it. The rare few who proved themselves not to be totally and completely incompetent seldom did so in their first year.  
   
My eyes scanned the room, falling on a single person. “Potter!” The boy jumped. Of course he wouldn't have been paying attention. “What will happen if I combine a powdered asphodel root and a wormwood infusion?” The boy looked to the boy next to him. He was certainly of the Weasley family by the ragged look of him. The hand of the girl next to him shot up in the air. She looked far too eager to answer the question; I consigned her to my list of students to never call on.  
   
“I don’t know, sir,” that blasted Potter boy said, as expected. My lips curled into a sneer. The boy looked taken aback, as was also to be expected. He was the son of the anomalously clueless James Potter, after all.  
   
“Well, it seems that fame does not account for brains.” I waited a while more before speaking, relishing in his confused look. “Second try: where could you find a bezoar in the event that you should need one?” The girl next to him again raised her hand, her frizzy curls bouncing in her effort to raise her hand high.  
   
“I don’t know, sir,” he said, a little more subdued. Out of all of the things I expected The Boy Who Lived to be, shyness was seldom on that list. That was unacceptable. The boy should have had the propriety, the decency to be assertive.  
   
“Didn’t bother to learn a thing before school, did you?” The boy kept silent. “Last try, Potter. Tell me how wolfsbane and monkshood are different.” It might have been unfair to taunt the boy, but there was an important lesson to be had, and judging by his cluelessness, he needed lessons like a grindylow dying of thirst. Not everything, especially in my class, would be handed on a platter to him. It would have to be earned. The girl next to him (I vaguely recalled her name; Hermione, was it?) stood up in an attempt to bring attention to her raised hand. Never mind that- I could stand to ignore her for a moment. The boy deserved the full brunt force of my disapproving disapprobation.  
   
“I don’t know,” he said, still in that infuriatingly diminished voice. “Hermione looks like she knows, though, don’t you think?” A few people laughed, souring my mood even further. I snapped at the girl to sit down; she looked sufficiently disheartened, which brought me a small semblance of satisfaction.  
   
"Asphodel and wormwood, when combined, will make a sleeping potion known as the Draught of Living Death. You would find a bezoar in the stomach of a goat, and there is no difference between monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant," I spat, still glowering from Potter's comment.

The rest of the class was even more disappointing as was to be expected. The students’ technique was shameful, save for Draco, who seemed to actually be competent. The worst of them all was Neville, who had managed to melt Seamus’s cauldron and spill the potion all over himself. After vanishing the potion, I turned on him, admonishing him for managing to mess up the relatively simple and easy potion and the Potter boy also, for failing to inform Neville of his mistake. I watched as he walked out of my classroom with Seamus, whimpering in pain and gave a mental sigh. This was going to be a very long year.


End file.
